Rain battered the city like a drumbeat of war.
It fell in heavy, deliberate sheets—soaking steel, glass, and concrete alike—washing the streets in reflective chaos as if the sky itself knew that blood would follow. Headlights flickered against puddled asphalt. Sirens wailed in the distance—some real, some fabricated—part of the symphony of misdirection that preceded a kill.
The first strike hit just after midnight.
A power grid hub in the old Narrows flickered, then died entirely. Darkness spread like spilled ink across an entire district. Renfield's men would scramble—flashlights, panicked comms, exposed positions. Just as planned.
Marek crouched beside the shattered frame of a utility transport, his rifle tucked against his shoulder. Rain slid down his mask, fogging the edge of his vision.
"Zone One—silent," he murmured into the comms.
"Zone Two—silent," another voice confirmed.
"Zone Three—engaged," crackled a third. Distant gunfire thundered over the line, brief and brutal.
Marek moved with the efficiency of a man who had done this too many times. Not just a soldier. Not just a bodyguard. He was Aldrin's spear—directed, unflinching.
From atop a fire escape, he gave the signal.
Operatives in black peeled from shadows like ghosts, each marked by the Crown's hidden sigil—visible only under certain spectrums. In under three minutes, Renfield's key drop point in the south collapsed—men neutralized, supply caches destroyed, information seized.
It was precise.
Unmerciful.
And it was only the beginning.
Far above the city, inside the Crown's mobile operations vehicle—a sleek black van armored like a tank but shaped like a beast—Aldrin stood watching the chaos unfold in real-time. Ainsworth sat beside the primary control interface, fingers dancing over the screen.
"South sector's clean," he said. "North hub will fall in the next twelve. We've sent them a message."
Aldrin nodded slowly, unblinking.
The interior lights flickered as lightning cracked the sky.
"Renfield won't take this lying down," Ainsworth added. "He'll test for weakness. Probe the flanks."
"Let him," Aldrin murmured. "He'll find steel."
Ainsworth paused, then looked toward him. "You sure you're not overextending? This many coordinated hits… it's a declaration."
"I've waited long enough," Aldrin said. "This war has been crawling in the dark for years. Tonight, it learns what light feels like."
Back on the ground, Marek dragged a bloodied courier into an alleyway beneath the overpass. The man coughed, rain mixing with crimson across his jaw.
"You were supposed to deliver to the Renfield estate tomorrow," Marek said calmly, crouching beside him. "We already intercepted the documents. I'm just curious who else was on the list."
The courier spat. "You're all dead men. You don't get it. Renfield isn't—"
Marek silenced him with a punch swift and surgical, breaking his jaw clean.
"Still breathing," he said into his comm, standing again. "But barely. Sending coordinates if you want to question him later."
Thunder rolled again as more explosions lit up the distant skyline.
In the van, Aldrin turned his gaze to the holo-map. Most of Renfield's touchpoints across the city were blinking red. Compromised. Collapsing.
Ainsworth leaned back, staring at one last blinking dot. One that hadn't moved.
"Still no word from the empty seat?" he asked softly.
Aldrin's silence answered for him.
Outside, the rain kept falling.
A reckoning born not in fire—but in the storm.
The rain never stopped.
By the time Aldrin stepped out of the van, the streets shimmered with oil-slick reflections. Thunder boomed above him, distant yet ever-present, like a war drum heraldring the moment.
He wore no high collar, no ceremonial cloak or tailored suit. Tonight, there was only the tactical shell—matte black armor plated for mobility and efficiency. His sleeves were rolled back just enough to reveal the constellation ink lining his forearms—his code written in stars.
This wasn't the Chairman of boardrooms.
This was the shadow behind the empire.
Marek approached through the mist, nodding once. "Building's been sealed. Guards on every floor. Four snipers posted, though two are already down. Clean shots."
"No survivors," Aldrin said flatly.
"Understood."
The building loomed ahead—an old tower repurposed by Renfield's operatives as a central communications relay. From here, messages were funneled across networks, contracts brokered, routes cleared. It was vital. And soon, it would be ash.
Marek moved first, breaching the side entrance with a shaped charge. The door melted open, and Aldrin was through before the smoke cleared.
First floor—three guards.
He moved like lightning—no wasted movement, no second thoughts. Two went down with suppressed shots to the skull. The third raised a rifle, but Aldrin closed the gap before the man could blink. His knife tore clean through the throat. A flash of arterial spray. Then silence.
They ascended quickly, room by room. Marek flanked wide, sweeping each floor while Aldrin carved straight up the central stairwell—turning each landing into a brief theater of execution.
Second floor—data operators.
No weapons. No time to beg.
They died as the cables burned.
Third floor—reinforcements tried to flood down the stairs. Aldrin met them head-on.
The first crumpled to a snapkick against the railing, body snapping against steel. The others hesitated.
Mistake.
He moved with a dancer's precision and a butcher's resolve. Elbow, knife, bullet, throw. Blood slicked the walls. Screams were cut short. By the time Marek rejoined him, Aldrin was breathing steady, eyes calm.
"You left one breathing," Marek observed, nodding at a groaning soldier in the corner.
"Intentional," Aldrin said, stepping over. He knelt beside the man.
"Renfield," he said quietly, "is going to hear about this. But not from you."
One clean shot silenced the final witness.
Top floor.
The communications center was ablaze—screens smashed, servers detonated with thermite charges. Aldrin paced through the chaos as Marek secured the exits. No one remained alive. No data survived.
Only a single message scrawled across the wall in dripping red ink:
"Too late, Crown."
Aldrin stared at it, unmoved. Then his comms crackled.
"Ainsworth here. Secondary relay just went dark. Interference."
Aldrin didn't answer immediately.
He walked to the shattered window and looked out over the rain-soaked skyline. From here, his empire stretched in quiet veins of light—alive, complex, watchful. But he knew better. Beneath it all were things still slithering. Still growing.
"We finish this," Aldrin said into the comms. "No delays. No blind spots. Dismantle every one of his strongholds by sunrise."
A pause. Then Ainsworth replied, voice laced with a knowing calm.
"Of course, Chairman."
Outside, the building erupted behind him—flames leaping into the storm, sending smoke into the night.
Aldrin stood in the rain, eyes lifted to the black sky.
And for a moment, the thunder whispered his name.